Modern Cosmology
by William Auten
Callbacks and acting gigs went dark about six months ago, and Bryan feels responsible because ever since he arrived in the City of Angels, he鈥檚 been highly selective with the roles offered and available to him, and given the current stalemate of no light breaking through this long fabric of nightfall, he鈥檚 not sure that strategy is wise anymore, especially when the late bills pile on his kitchen counter or another warning from his landlord beeps on his voicemail. He鈥檚 been telling Mark this at the gym during their workouts, a time of respite for him from the loud, snapping assaults of making a good-enough career in order to make big and little ends meet in the middle, a place鈥搊ther than his Sunday school and mid-week Bible studies鈥搘here he feels the twin shadows of guilt and doubt will wait for him, like mangy, hungry dogs, in the over-amped circuitry of the outside world. And so, as much as the joint pains in his hands and arms allow, Bryan scoots a metal plyometric box close to the end of the weight rack in order to step on it and reach the lighter- and medium-sized plates organized at the top. He rolls off a few weights, lugs them across the gym floor, carrying them like heavy tires in his arms, and slides them onto the bar, in the nick of time before his back flares.
鈥淩eady?鈥� Bryan struggles, standing on his blueberry-sized tiptoes, and rolls the second of the two plates for his friend onto the bar.
鈥淐heck her out, B,鈥� Mark replies, not trying to stare too much at the woman doing Mississippi-count leg levers on a mat close to them.
鈥淟et鈥檚 just work out. It鈥檚 been a long week.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淚 gots to, B.鈥�&#虫9诲; Mark brushes his ginger buzz cut towards Bryan and, biceps flexing into the size of quail eggs, rolls up the sleeves on his t-shirt.
鈥淚 know鈥�,鈥� Bryan mumbles as he watches his friend make himself known.
鈥淗ey, sorry to interrupt your sesh, but I was wondering, when you鈥檙e done, would you video my form? It鈥檚 leg day for me. Movin鈥� some big weight around, you know?鈥� Mark rambles on as the woman鈥檚 feet reach the top, her hips hinging, by the end of i-p-p-i.
鈥淪ure,鈥� the woman puffs, catching her breath, and wipes her forehead. 鈥淚 just finished.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淭hree by ten?鈥� Mark asks.
鈥淗ow鈥檇 you know?鈥� she gleams.
鈥淥h come on, girl, those abs don鈥檛 lie.鈥�&#虫9诲;
Wink from Mark to Bryan. Head nod from Bryan who closes his eyes as soon as his buddy returns his attention to Abs Woman, and he thinks how many times Mark has sweet-talked all the ladies, all shapes and sizes and colors, in the gym to video or photograph him working out, proving again and again his mechanics thesis while hoping to get their contact info. Mark is a champion pony with the ladies and his request for videoing, but when it comes to getting names and numbers, he鈥檚 a donkey hitched to a post in a ghost town.
The muscular ginger rolls the barbell close to his shins. Abs Woman cocks her yoga-pants hip and says, 鈥淩eady when you are.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淣o belt!鈥� Mark yawps, his oath living inside and outside the gym, and shakes his head before chalking his hands and gripping the bar. When he first started doing this, the hulking grunting-and-moaning guys and gals stared at his bark echoing in the salty, metallic, pop-song air, but now when Mark calls out, they ignore him and continue pumping their own iron. Two deep, quick breaths in and Mark holds them as he whips the bar from ground to overhead, squatting as soon as the bar hovers in front of his chest. Five slow, solid reps from the shorn redhead. Panting, sweat dripping, he lets the bar chime on the ground.
Bryan claps his hands at the advance his buddy has made in less than a week. 鈥淕ood job, man.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淣ice,鈥� says the woman. 鈥淟ooked good to me.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淟et me see,鈥� Mark replies and stands as close as he can to the woman to watch the video. 鈥�Giiiiiirl鈥�,鈥� he grins, 鈥測ou can flat-out film. Thank you. Look at this, B.鈥�&#虫9诲; He flips the phone towards Bryan. 鈥淎dding weight. Making gains. Simple mechanics,鈥� he gloats. 鈥淚 have less real estate to move than beanpole over there.鈥�&#虫9诲; Mark nods towards Bryan. 鈥淒irect, simple route from floor to head. Osbourne鈥檚 razor.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淥ckham,鈥� the woman laughs with her correction and looks down at Mark.
鈥淥ckham? Not Ozzy? You sure?鈥� Mark winks at Abs Woman.
鈥淏e sure to hashtag it so I can find,鈥� she teases as she picks up her mat.
鈥淥h, I will. TinyButMighty! SizeDontMatter!鈥� Mark鈥檚 voice raises.
Bryan shakes his head.
鈥淗ave a good day.鈥�&#虫9诲; She waves and walks towards the locker room.
鈥淢aking all kinds of gains today.鈥�&#虫9诲;
Mark bounds around the weight racks like a rabbit on the first day of spring.
鈥淲hat was her name?鈥� Bryan smirks as he strips the weights from the bar, tests it, and grabs the lighter-weight trainer bar from the rack.
鈥淚t鈥檚 too early to make a move, but I could tell she was into me.鈥�&#虫9诲; Mark stops in front of a mirror and turns his head before tightening his quads and calves.
鈥�But鈥�?鈥� Bryan asks, massaging his back and then chalking his hands.
鈥淟ike the song. 鈥楽low and Easy.鈥欌€�
鈥淲hich song is that?鈥�
鈥淢y anthem, B. My anthem.鈥�&#虫9诲; Mark raises his chin and looks at the doorway to the women鈥檚 locker room.
鈥淢aybe your anthem needs to be 鈥楽tart but Can鈥檛 Finish.鈥欌€�
鈥淲hat鈥檚 with that?鈥� Mark snaps.
鈥淣othing.鈥�&#虫9诲; Bryan shrugs off his friend and latches his powdered hands onto the bar.
鈥淣o鈥o, don鈥檛 nothing me. What is it?鈥�
Bryan struggles with his overhead squat, falling lopsided to his left until his leg drags its heel across the padded floor. After three shaky reps, the bar falls from his hands, his gas tank empty. 鈥淭his past Tuesday.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淲丑补迟?鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淚 didn鈥檛 get it.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淲hat? The part?鈥�
鈥渊别补丑.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淲hich one was it?鈥�
鈥淭he indie flick.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淪orry, B.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淚t鈥檚 not permanent.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淥h, I know. It never is.鈥�&#虫9诲; Mark smirks. 鈥淲e鈥檙e always saying we鈥檙e gonna get that big break. You say it鈥檚 still coming for you.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淭he big breaks are out there. I just don鈥檛 have one yet.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淭here are so many in front of you already. Stop wanting that safety net tied under you.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淚鈥檓 not鈥︹赌�&#虫9诲;
鈥淚 know, I know.鈥�&#虫9诲; Mark鈥檚 flattened palm interrupts Bryan. 鈥淲hat I do, it鈥檚 not for you. But, look, I鈥檓 happy with my lot. I got mine and then some.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淲hat? Comic relief? The accident-prone sidekick? That鈥檚 old shtick. Danny Catalano on the cop show?鈥�
鈥淧rocedural,鈥� Mark clarifies.
鈥淭here are so many these days.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淩eally, B? Jealous much?鈥�
鈥�True Heart,鈥� Bryan dramatizes in a voice-over, 鈥溾€楢 Native American cop straddles the lines that connect his heritage, his family, and his duty.鈥欌€�
鈥淗ey,鈥� Mark snaps, his fingers jabbing the air, 鈥淒anny Catalano was one of my finer moments. He ran the police department鈥檚 motor pool.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淎nd,鈥� Bryan gasps after he struggles with another set, 鈥渉ow many scenes did you have when, once again, episode after episode, you鈥 mean, Danny Catalano鈥ouldn鈥檛 reach the tools on the top shelf or your feet couldn鈥檛 touch the pedals to drive the cars onto the lift. Crazy-funny-comic-relief accidents.鈥�&#虫9诲;
Mark shrugs his shoulders.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 what I鈥檓 talking about.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淩elax, Hamlet. Yours will come. Everyone will know how serious you are. But look,鈥� Mark continues as the rusty bar clangs around the ground, 鈥渕y agent is fielding calls left and right.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淵ou鈥檙e gonna get a disease.鈥�&#虫9诲;
Mark rolls his eyes. 鈥淚鈥檓 not stupid. It鈥檚 safer than you think. I鈥檝e got a steady income. I can see a good doctor whenever. Obviously that鈥檚 not my only stream of income.鈥�&#虫9诲;
Bryan shakes his head and sees Mark in his Tiny Elvis and Tiny Vanilla Ice costumes, steady-paying porn gigs that enable him to travel and buy new clothes and new cars and network with industry insiders.
鈥淲ebisodes, Web sites,鈥� his ginger friend continues. 鈥淒id you hear about the latest poll?鈥�
Bryan shakes his head and tries another set, the veins in his neck pumping as he pulls the bar.
鈥淲hat Americans click the most of on those sites? We鈥檙e right below 鈥楰issing Cousins.鈥� I can get you in. Let me鈥︹赌�&#虫9诲;
鈥淢ark, stop.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淏鈥︹赌�&#虫9诲;
鈥淢ark, no.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淏ryan, listen to me. This one鈥h, it鈥檚 called鈥he series, it鈥檚鈥�Little People, Big鈥︹赌�&#虫9诲;
鈥淢ark鈥�,鈥� Bryan cuts him off. 鈥淵ou know I don鈥檛 do that.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淭he director said we鈥檇 be hooded. No one鈥檒l know it鈥檚 you.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淗ooded?鈥� Bryan exclaims. The bar teeters over him, pulling his body to the side.
鈥淢asked. I mean, masked. You鈥檇 wear a mask. You can use a fake name, too.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥�Mark, pleeease!鈥� Bryan feels all the eyes in the gym land on Mark and him. Having re-appeared on the floor from the locker room, Abs Woman, dressed in a hoodie, wrinkles her nose at the dynamic duo. The bar rattles on the ground. Bryan blushes at his outburst and then cringes, knowing that Mark and the characters that Mark plays could be more: a David in a Goliath world, a piece of the sun broken off and burning brightly on its own. Bryan puts his heel on the chrome trainer bar and stops it from rolling into the weight room鈥檚 traffic. 鈥淚t was a role I wanted. It was a real role, not鈥� Forget it,鈥� Brian sighs, his mind landing on the color headshot and big-font news regarding another major role for an actor of Bryan and Mark鈥檚 stature after he picked up the latest issue of casting news and rumors on his way to the gym. 鈥淚 went in twice for that, and he got it鈥� Twice, man. I bought the CD and I hit it off. It was mine to lose.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淲ell, you lost it鈥o one of us.鈥�&#虫9诲; Mark bounces the bar on his thighs on his way to the weight rack. 鈥淏e happy he got it. Come on, B. Don鈥檛 sweat it. Look, you can鈥檛 blame him and want him to do so much for the rest of us鈥pen all these doors.鈥�&#虫9诲;
Before Bryan can answer, a voice behind them says, 鈥淗ey, I鈥檓 Maggie, by the way.鈥�&#虫9诲;
The two men turn their heads. Abs Woman has her hand out for a shake, and she has returned with an equally sweaty, toned, and tanned woman standing next to her.
鈥淢ark.鈥�&#虫9诲; He quickly grabs the woman鈥檚 hand.
鈥淗i, I鈥檓 Bryan.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淗ey, I鈥檓 Alice.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淵ou have plans tonight?鈥� Maggie looks at both of them.
鈥淚 do now.鈥�&#虫9诲; Mark beams. The ladies giggle.
鈥淪orry, but I do,鈥� Bryan smiles.
Mark glowers at him.
鈥淚 got my men鈥檚 ministry breakfast in the morning.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥�B鈥�,鈥� Mark flicks his eyes at the woman and her friend. He then looks at Bryan.
Bryan shakes his head no.
鈥淕et your mind off all that. Come on.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淣ah, man. Go. Have a good time.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淎鈥檌ght. Chest day Friday?鈥� Mark pumps his pecs individually and then slaps five with Bryan.
鈥淵ep. You know it,鈥� Bryan deadpans with a smile.
The ladies roll their eyes.
The trio leaves, with Mark as the new bud of a red rose bound between two leathery, fluorescent-colored flowers, and Bryan hears one of the women say to Mark, 鈥淚鈥檝e seen you around.鈥�&#虫9诲;
Bryan looks out the large windows on the main floor. It鈥檚 quiet again, the kind of quiet he longs for, quiet out there where the clouds have burned off and the sky is bright blue, the little light expanding with the prism effect of the glass, behind him the commotion of larger bodies moving and colliding with machines, gears grinding, chiming like bells.
鈥�
Deacon Dan鈥檚 wife answers the front door. 鈥淲ell, hello there,鈥� Judy says, her bright smile broadening. 鈥淐ome on in. So glad to see you, Bryan.鈥�&#虫9诲; She kneels and gives him a big hug, which she always does at church on Sundays and which he always welcomes because she smells like cinnamon sprinkled on sugar cookies.
He follows her to the brightest part of the house, her silver and faded-brown poof of hair bobbing as she shuffles in her sandals. Books and color samples and anatomy references fill the shelves of the studio that branches off from the living room. Sunlight drenches the many windows. A forest top of easels in one of the corners. Paper, rolls of canvas, paints, brushes, frames, and stretcher bars in another corner. The heavy aromas of apple juice and frail, small bodies.
鈥淗ey, everyone, look,鈥� Judy beams, coffee cup in hand, 鈥淏ryan鈥檚 here.鈥�&#虫9诲;
The crowd of blue-tinged, smoky, and all-white hair slowly breaks apart, and one by one, wrinkled necks and a few oxygen tubes in noses drift down past the midway point of the doorway. Bryan, the youngest in the room at thirty-two, and the shortest, waves to them. They all nod, clap, and cheer. Most of them smile, some rows of natural teeth still in place, some off-white dentures making an appearance. Arthritic knuckles and papery skin wave in the morning light. They all know Bryan. He sees Gladys and Charlotte and Russell and Homer Sr. and Jessie, some of them leaning on the plastic tables Judy has set up, some of them still in their wheelchairs, some with their walkers and canes close by. Omaha Beach Bill鈥檚 breathing machine hisses when his finger-gun pops two rounds of hellos at Bryan. Gladys adjusts her glasses and winks at him. When Bryan first met her, she thought that he had escaped from the children鈥檚 service and was wandering unattended about the church. 鈥淚t happens,鈥� he had told her. 鈥淣o worries. You were behind me. You couldn鈥檛 see my face.鈥�&#虫9诲; He had a wispy, juvenile-delinquent mustache at the time and rubbed it on purpose when he told her this.
Bryan grabs his gear and supplies from the cubby at the front of the room and flops in his usual seat by Charlotte, who reaches over and grips Bryan鈥檚 wrist with her quivering hand. 鈥淗ey there, buddy,鈥� she says, her hazel eyes less milky in the studio light at this time of day.
Judy has them warm up with some rapid drawing, doodling, shading, free-for-all, whatever comes to their minds. 鈥淟oosen up those hands and imaginations,鈥� the sinewy sixty-something sings as she glides around the studio, the drawstrings on her white capris swinging, and she stops every now and then by the long desk flanking the shelves in order to prep the day鈥檚 exercise. 鈥淲e鈥檙e all doing so good with what we鈥檝e been given.鈥�&#虫9诲;
After about ten minutes, Judy has them pick up from last week, returning to their landscapes. Bryan has made strong progress on his, the swirling cylinders of green and speckled brown mountains, a golden path cutting through the foothills, but the acid-wash blue sky, scratched off and reworked over and over, remains unfinished. He鈥檚 been putting it off for days because he鈥檚 not sure if it should be day or night; it鈥檚 vital to him to understand if this is a beginning or an end. He鈥檚 had other things on his mind, too, hefty demands, distractions, switch-a-roos. Jessie鈥檚 and Bryan鈥檚 works are the more advanced pieces in the class. Not that Bryan is keeping tabs, but part of him is and, he鈥檚 admitted to himself, needs to, because that part wants to be recognized for what he can do, his hard work, not who he is, not turning his nose up at anyone because most people have turned their heads away from him after gawking for so long at him, which has propelled him through life. And he feels guilty, his pride pressing his chest from the inside, when he sees how much he鈥檚 improved his artistic skills in a church-sponsored class for the people who could be, and in many ways are, his grandparents. Bryan can paint, and it鈥檚 starting to matter; it unfastens him from the days that have become heavier with obscurity, the endless-feeling days that loom over him with all their shadows and fuzzy surprises.
As a kid, his drawings were doodles, broken, incoherent things, his body depicted as no different than the stick-figure and caped avengers scribbled next to him, baseball players with huge forearms and bats, his own felt-tip-marker body never disproportionate to his peers鈥� bodies, typical taped-to-the-refrigerator expressions and collages, work which Judy encourages with all her students, but she has quietly guided Bryan to transform that energy into 鈥渟erious art.鈥�&#虫9诲; Since working part-time at the church, office tasks and odd jobs here and there for the church鈥檚 departments and staff, some help with the landscaping, all thanks to Deacon Dan, Bryan has discovered not only Judy鈥檚 painting and drawing classes but also that he has a real knack, in ways that he never found in acting, for blocks of colors, moving around shapes, filling in a blank space, and weighing the options of light and shadow, the private joy of counteracting a grey world with its bait-and-switches that seem planted closer and larger than yesterday. He doesn鈥檛 have to memorize any script lines. He doesn鈥檛 have to work on motivations. He doesn鈥檛 feel pressured to say yes to things that he knows he should say no to. This skill unfurls from inside him, and his love of painting has been slowly taking over as the comet tail of acting that passed over him years ago burns out and accumulates like dust in a corner. The first time he picked up the brush it was like magic, and the first time he painted something from memory and then from his imagination stunned him, but he thought that painting and drawing would be like music overheard in a waiting room, something to fill in the gaps while the thing he truly wanted remained dangling in front of him. But after months of being around Judy and, as she calls them, her Golden Years Gaugins鈥搘hich Omaha Beach Bill hates because it鈥檚 too wordy and 鈥渕akes no sense to him or anyone,鈥� even though Gladys loves it and tells her seven grandchildren and three great-grands about it鈥揃ryan has often wondered if painting, rather than acting, rather than Paperboy, Stoner #2, Skater in Mall, Gorilla-Girl Assistant, points to the future.
鈥淲aiting鈥lways waiting,鈥� he鈥檚 told Deacon Dan when they talk over coffee and a stack of stiff, uniform pancakes, a globe of butter melting.
鈥淚 know鈥�,鈥� the thin-haired deacon said, wiping his wrinkled mouth, his long legs stretching out, 鈥渉ope lies within limitations,鈥� before lighting his pipe in the Garden of Mercy where a statue of the Holy Mother stands no taller than Bryan. Tobacco leaves crackling, little fire in a corn-cob pipe glowing among the wood and the stone and the humus of the church, the landscape of flashing neon lights, beeps on computer screens, and incessant buzzing so far away.
鈥淥K, gang, see you next week,鈥� Judy says, after she and Bryan pack up the supplies, clean up, and put away the tables.
鈥淵ou coming back with us?鈥� the group asks as they shuffle towards the white church van idling in the driveway.
鈥淚 sure am,鈥� Bryan replies. 鈥淚 have some emails to finish for the youth group.鈥�&#虫9诲; He helps everyone in, closes the doors, and before getting in the passenger seat, he realizes that his jacket remains in the studio. He walks back in, grabs his jacket off the chair, and on his way out, an artist catalogue on the shelf next to the door catches his eye. In all the times here, passing the shelf, rummaging it for ideas or inspirations or scouring the how-to鈥檚, he has never seen it before. He pulls it out. Its sheen, black-and-tan spine jumps in his hands. He flips through it, the brightly colored lithographs and the tones of the paintings warming him, pulling him into the cobbled streets of Paris and lamp-lit halls, absinthe-drenched pubs, and crowded rooms of the end of a century. And when he sees the artist, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, the metallic-tan smudge of a man standing in the sepia-soaked tintype, the painter鈥檚 beady eyes, a round face with a slight smug smile blurring what it has seen and what it hides with what it wants to throw back, Bryan does a double take. He feels close to the photo of the artist and to Toulouse-Lautrec鈥檚 works, a distance shortened, a hand extending from the soot and grime as the nineteenth century closed, a hand of today, with its hot-keyed and rapid-fire highways, extending in return. It was a twin he never knew he had.
What are the odds? he thinks to himself as something inside him like a shutter flicks open, a rope from the sky dropping in. An idea swings over him, an idea tethering time, money, and his natural abilities. He shakes his head because he immediately sees Mark. The idea generates more heat and light, little ripples riding other ripples, big waves headed in. He鈥檚 determined to get his hands on everything and anything鈥搕he clothes, the accouterments. He鈥檒l even call up an ex who works in the costume department at a major studio.
鈥淒id you get lost?鈥� Judy teases, stepping into the studio, nearly losing her footing on a rag dropped on the floor.
鈥淥n my way,鈥� he replies and shows the book to her. 鈥淢ay I borrow this?鈥�
鈥淥f course,鈥� she answers, humming, not paying any attention to him.
鈥�
Bryan shows up at one end of Hollywood Boulevard, inside the popular blocks of the street, near the turf wars and territorial markings of celebrity impersonators and sidewalk performers and characters vivified off-screen, where the crowds swell and crest, the clicking of cameras and phones quickens, the talking and shrilling cries and finger-pointing ramp up, past a few pawn and gift stores, in the midst of coffee and frozen yogurt shops, and movie-goers spilling out of an early show at the Chinese Theatre, and he鈥檚 ready, been ready for the past several weeks, to pull the star-spangled plan in his head and illuminate everything and everyone around him; but he sees that he鈥檚 not alone, not even close, and that plan is starting to lose its sizzle. He knew the competition would be fierce going in, but he had no clue, no first-hand experience. His four-eleven frame dawdles back and forth, in between very little traffic honking or blaring music on his side of the street for this time of day, soon to change, he hopes and hopes, the cuffs of his wool pants dragging, his polished dress shoes clapping on the blacktop; he remains certain that he鈥檒l not only get his guiding light back but will ignite it some more as anticipated.
So with one eye on the commotion growing across the street and one eye on his task at hand, he goes about his day, waiting for a chance to make himself known among all of God鈥檚 creatures, factual and fictional, at half past one in the afternoon, biding more time as he has the past few months, but this time, he鈥檚 sworn, things will change. Under an awning stretched in front of a gold and silver dealer, a record shop with album covers plastering its windows, and the blinking traffic-light sign for Candice鈥檚 Candy Stop, Where the Sweet Life Is Always Green, he aligns the legs of his easel so that the crack in the sidewalk, where two halves meet, lock the legs in place. He drops two small sandbags at the back, just in case. The Santa Ana winds have picked up and are stronger than they were last week. A battery of large paper clips gleam in the afternoon sun along the edge of the easel.
Bryan takes off his bowler hat, sets it on the cloth bag next to him, slicks down any shiny black hairs raising their necks from his tar pit of pomade, and adjusts his vintage tie and its mother-of-pearl clip. Out comes the painter鈥檚 smock from the cloth bag. Out come a few brushes. Out come the charcoal, pastels, and oil sticks. He pauses for a minute. The crowds still aren鈥檛 headed his way like they had in his daydreams. Most of the people are on the other side of the street, and thickening, heading towards more familiar characters. But onward he goes with his plan of attack. Back and forth, back and forth, he scribbles an urban landscape, streets, nook and crannies, adding navy and ochre and burnt sierra, saving room on the canvas for signs and billboards and the sky.
A few people eventually dribble by, stop, and look. A slight smile on his face, Bryan dips his rag in turpentine and erases parts of the horizon above the quickly drawn row of buildings filling the canvas board. He rubs the board, cocks his head. The paint lifts off like paper towels cleaning up a spill on a countertop. He starts to paint, dipping his brush in a glob of paint, dragging the brush across his palette until it鈥檚 diluted; he measures the canvas again. Marbled sky, blue breaking into blank. He leaves it alone. People move on. A few kids scrabble around him, watch him insert long, thinned blocks of dirt red for a fa脙搂ade. They giggle when he glances at them, black smudges on his nose and fingertips, his brown eyes swiveling towards them. Of course, he thinks. The kids are most fascinated by Bryan. They stand close to him for so long in silence, at the same height, his stubby arms and legs making miracles happen with shapes and lines and colors, as one of their own, the kids squeal, spinning the carousel of wonder, except that he has a bushy beard spirit-gummed to his otherwise smooth face, wears round glasses with a chain attached to them, draws Heaven and Earth and the things created in between, and draws them like an angel. He overhears one of the dads say that the Shrek, standing by the cold-pressed juice joint, manhandled the kids too roughly during photo ops. Very few tips for the green ogre with a layer of mold on his felt costume. Bryan lets the kids come and go like an empty swing at a playground.
But the kids don鈥檛 know who he is, and the owners tethered to their dogs don鈥檛 care. One cockapoo gnaws on a colored pencil before dropping it. A few, mainly Europeans, know who Bryan is, and the few teens and adults who stop and have heard of him and chuckle or congratulate him are usually intellectual-looking types, dressed in all-black, occasionally wearing glasses, a book or a cup of coffee in hand, visitors or locals keeping distance from Hollywood鈥檚 shoreline and songs sung from the countless faces rolling across its countless neon-charged seas. Bryan is keeping count of these people on one of his delicate, knobby hands; it鈥檚 taken several hours of being out here to reach that count, and it鈥檚 taken nearly half a year to regain a feeling of recognition, small as it is, and it feels earned to him, that it鈥檚 his to lose if he doesn鈥檛 take care of it. As for the others, the bystanders struggling and needing him to throw them a lifeline the size of an encyclopedia, he tells them who he is. The responses vary.
鈥淪o talented and, oh my gosh, you are sooo cute. I could just take you home and snuggle you all day. Bye.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淲ould you marry me?鈥�
鈥淪o鈥e, I mean, you鈥ou鈥檙e a painter?鈥�
鈥淥h鈥ou just dress like him.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淏ut you鈥檙e playing him.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淗uh鈥K. Never heard of him.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淲hy him? Why not be the guy from Game of Thrones? You鈥檙e perfect for that.鈥�&#虫9诲;
Lots of shoulder shrugs and good lucks from those who stop and chat before drifting on. And when they hear who he is, nine times out of ten they squish their noses and wrinkle their foreheads.
鈥淎nn-ri? Like, Henry?鈥�
鈥淪ay it again for me.鈥�&#虫9诲;
Bryan does, repeats the name of the person he鈥檚 supposed to be, with a good-enough accent salvaged from his high-school French class and blended with Dialect Nights at his acting workshops. 鈥淗enri de Toulouse-Lautrec. The h is silent,鈥� he says, politely smiling but never breaking concentration on his drawing or painting. If he realizes that the person across from him sends more white flags up the bewilderment pole, he tacks on, 鈥�Moulin Rouge鈥he movie.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淥h, OK!鈥� Eyes brighten. Pupils expand. Fingers snap. 鈥�Moulin Rouge the movie.鈥�&#虫9诲; Heads bob. Floodgates of memory spill open.
鈥淴迟颈苍补!鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淥h yeah, I know that. Pink, Lil鈥� Kim.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淚t鈥檚 like Chicago the musical.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淓wan McGregor was in it, too.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淥bi Wan? Speaking of, did you see Darth up there?鈥�
鈥淲hich one?鈥�
鈥淭he one by Chipotle鈥ther side of the street. He had a green lightsaber. Green.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淭om Cruise鈥檚 ex was in it too before she got out of crazy-town Scientology.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淭辞尘碍补迟?鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淣o, this was before Baby Suri.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淐an鈥檛 blame her.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淪ame director who did Gatsby.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淟别辞?鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淭otally.鈥�&#虫9诲;
鈥淚鈥檓 king of the world, babe!鈥� Dude screams, his arms held wide in the light cutting through the alleys. Dude looks at Bryan鈥檚 canvas. No ocean, no icebergs, no Titanic snapping in two under the drying bristles of the HT-L. 鈥淲here鈥檚 the ocean, bro? This is California,鈥� which is what everyone told Bryan when he stepped off the plane four years ago, the beaches and the surf and sand and the beach-ready bodies, but the sky was the first thing that hit him. Bryan rubs the side of his temple before laying a wash of transparent black over the buildings, a unified shadow falling. Babe squeezes her Dude鈥檚 arm, and she drops a few coins and dollars into the bowler upturned at Bryan鈥檚 feet. And off they walk, hand in hand, towards the superheroes cruising up and down the busy sidewalks, capes billowing in the wind, one of them bouncing on a pogo stick and nearly taking out one of the Marilyn Monroes, Captains Jack Sparrow #1 and #4, the other three captains wandering rudderless in the crowds, and Thriller-era Michael Jackson who, waving his sparkled glove, stops moonwalking to pose for photos with tourists that have meandered from the hearse parked near the curb, the black signs with neon-pink letters stuck to its doors and trunk advertising The Hollywood Tour of Celebrity Deaths.
Bryan shrugs off Mark鈥檚 advice when he mentioned doing this to him, 鈥渁 better gimmick,鈥� he suggested, a hot chick on his arm wearing something low-cut or high-cut, depending on her figure, but something and someone eye-catching and unavoidable to the crowds, Mark also advising him to work more with the others around him, don鈥檛 be so isolated, two-for-one photos with another character, which everybody would know, that it could take a while to be a regular, to become familiar and successful.
Stepping back, Bryan looks at his painting, can鈥檛 help but hear noise bustling across the street, and will do no more until he鈥檚 back next Saturday, capturing the same scene but with different angles, moving around what he鈥檚 seeing, the chiaroscuro of the day, the time, where he鈥檚 standing, snapshot of the now, part real, part imagined, located near the constellations of crowds, the sky he can鈥檛 yet finish. He looks at the top of his canvas and, paint still fresh, removes a little more from the sky. He cleans his brushes, caps off his tubes, and wipes his hands. Odor of turpentine and oil paints. Odor of pavement cooking in the sunlight. Odor of kabobs and hot dogs and plastic sitting in the sun. He steps back from the easel and drops his jaw into his neck, his eyes peering over his glasses, everything on his face swelling like a bleating frog. He has set the hard blocks of buildings off to the right, so that the right lane of the buildings has a sharp but short depth, the left side pulled more than halfway across the canvas, the two lanes of blacks and browns and earth tones vanishing at their common point. Bryan scrapes off the gummy residue on a bottle of quick-drying linseed oil. He touches the unfinished sky and鈥搇eaving behind a faint fingerprint, unsatisfied with the earlier edit鈥損ulls off more blue. Three days max, he thinks and surveys the loose sketch of the day鈥檚 work, this self-closing ritual of his.
And so it鈥檚 late, and Bryan knows this; the sun is setting behind the buildings, and behind the buildings, the sun will eventually settle into the ocean. His bowler is half full with business cards and scribbled Call Me promises, which he鈥檒l discard, the other half with dollar bills and coins, which he鈥檒l seal in an anonymous envelope and place in a tray passed around the congregation midway through the second morning service, after the invocation and doxology. Tomorrow is Offering Sunday, when his church will have a cookout and games, a raffle, and traditional tithing to meet or beat its donation goals. Everyone will know each other; everyone will have something to do. All the noise from the other streets along the boulevard orbits around him. There are stars that are seen and unseen, bodies sliding in and out of celestial frameworks bound to the ground. Tomorrow is a day of rest.